Maybe the World was Ending
by crimepays
Summary: Santana lives in New York City on the night that the world is to end.
1. 7pm to 8pm

**7pm-8pm**

It should figure that the night before the world was to end there would be limitless opportunities. Drugs, sex, rock and roll – those were the obvious choice of youth. There were the underground hideaways where four years of collective work resulted in stockpiles of survival items stowed in a cavernous structure below the ground. One option was always to join the cults committing to an early death with cyanide and control. There were the Bible thumpers preaching rapture and collecting in churches across the world to pray for forgiveness. Most people wouldn't think about it, but there were also the countless run-of-the-mill folks, with families and kids - maybe a pet - who were eating their last meals together, tucking their kids in for a sleep from which they wouldn't wake. Tears had run dry months earlier, after hearing the final, devastating news.

It had all boiled down to three philosophical camps - the Realists, the Believers, and the Fatalists. Four years ago, when The Prediction was confirmed with a 78% accuracy rating, the camps had formed. Each had its own subsets, cults, and extremists. Each saw transience from one camp to another and back again. Each had dealt with its own devastating blows to credence, only to make the slow journey to acceptance once again. One day, the Realists were media darlings, the next day, the Believers. (The Fatalists, though, well they got their own network, so they could spin the media whichever way they chose.) In the end - which is to say _now_- these were the big three. These were the only camps that remained.

New York City was a city of Realists. It was tradition, really, more than anything else. Sure, it had its share of Believers and its share of Fatalists, but Santana estimated that what put New York City on the map was a realism that dated back to the Revolutionary War, when George Washington and his soldiers recognized the strength of the British Army and retreated, living to fight another day.

These days, being a Realist didn't mean living to fight another day. That philosophy was for Believers. Realists had recognized months ago, when the President broadcasted The Announcement across every television screen in the nation, that there would be no hope for salvation, no chance to fight nature. Unlike the Fatalists, who believed that the human race was finally getting the predicted punishment for its sins, the Realists accepted the terms of scientific discovery. If science said there was no hope for survival, then there was no hope for survival.

Ages ago, before the official philosophy of Realism, a realist would have recognized that global warming really did exist. A realist would have worked to alleviate the conditions of global warming - researching and adapting alternate fuel sources, reducing energy use, and recycling materials. Just like the realists of yore, today's Realists had made those same life-saving attempts. Fruitlessly. A realist believed until only a sliver of hope remained. A realist recognized that a sliver of hope really meant no hope at all.

Santana began her graduate courses in history at Columbia just as the three camps were coming to fruition. She'd left her specialization in the Studies of Women and Gender to immerse herself in the history of the now. She'd presented her first graduate research paper on comparative philosophical movements in Contemporary and Colonial Ages. It bored most people, and aside from Quinn, the peons from high school would never believe that _the _Santana Lopez was such a brain, but she'd finally found something she loved.

She'd received a grant for her research - from the Believers. She'd been torn that day. She wasn't a Believer. But the Realists had begun to divide their camp more sharply from the Believers, and that meant halting the funding of any research. According to the Realists, what good was research if the world was certainly ending? Santana didn't care what the Realists thought when it came to her work. It was her only love. She'd side with the Believers for the moment if it meant getting paid an extra few bucks to buy groceries and partially enjoy the days leading to the end.

Believers, naturally, were another story. They grasped to the ever-diminishing number of The Prediction. It had begun at 22%, and then shifted a year later to 15%. Now it weighed in at a meager 9%. Believers always looked at the numbers in terms of survival. Fruitless meant nothing to a Believer's vocabulary. Hope survived, like the Believers knew the human race would. Believers, of course, were the last to stop working. Even when the bus routes stopped, Believers walked to work. Only when office buildings had closed, dust collecting on computers and swivel chairs, did the Believers stop their daily routines. Yet, with the end of one daily routine came the beginning of another. For the last months, Believers operated most of the hospitals, care homes, and small stores. They catered to the needs of the community. One day, Believers were sure, their labors would be commended as they kept a despairing civilization alive.

Aside from pocketing their generous donation, Santana had never once considered the Believers' philosophies. How could someone argue with hard data? That, and the idea of being so completely selfless, baffled her. She couldn't think of a single instance in her life when she'd been so selfless. Maybe when her brow furrowed and her tongue worked against the heat between a girl's thighs? Certainly not. She'd always expected something in return. Maybe when she'd agreed to split the rent 60-40 with Quinn Fabray four years ago? No, Fabray was her oldest and sometimes, she thought, only friend. That extra 10% wasn't selflessness; it was a guarantee. They were the kind of friends who told secrets to one another when they were drunk and alone, and the kind of friends who told each other's secrets when drunk and en masse. In their junior year of high school, Santana had slapped Quinn in the hallway for divulging the secret she'd assumed Quinn would be smarter than to reveal. It took a few months, but a mutual Rachel Berry insult had brought them back together. That extra 10% in rent forced apologies within 24 hours, rather than two months. It guaranteed the transplant family they'd come to appreciate in the top floor of their brownstone.

Her relationship with Quinn had only strengthened in the years since she'd moved to New York City. When she was accepted into Columbia's Ph.D. program, Quinn was her first phone call. Family was out at that point. Quinn had dropped out of Yale at The Prediction and lived hand to mouth in the city since then, usually working a few jobs at once before breaking down and starting all over again. Santana didn't want to lord academics over Quinn too heavily, so they talked mostly about Quinn's life in the city. When she slipped in that she'd been accepted, she was met with silence. After about a minute, she proposed that they move in together.

It was easy enough. Quinn arranged a weekend's worth of apartment showings and Santana slipped away from Ann Arbor for a weekend to prepare for grad school. They hugged for a second too long in the terminal at Penn Station. Quinn pulled away first and pushed a strand of blue hair behind her ear. Santana had been tempted to fall into her old routine of high school insults, but she'd learned through their time apart that Quinn had to be her exception. Somewhere between leaving prank calls about consignment maternity clothes in her freshman year of college and commiserating about the loss of family in their sophomore year, Santana had realized that she was Quinn's only support system. And as a support system (even from hundreds of miles away), she would be the reason for the final crack if she didn't stop.

Living together, it was natural that a few slip-ups would happen. But, Santana couldn't stop the train of insults the morning after a mohawked boy emerged from Quinn's room. It had just been so easy. Quinn smiled at first, laughed with her. Until, "Pregnant again, huh? That's a pretty bad move when the world's ending, Q." Truth was, she was still drunk from the night before. Truth was, she was jealous at Quinn's ease in allowing someone to slip into her bed – into her life. Truth was, she wasn't acutely aware until that exact moment how Quinn's pregnancy haunted her. The conversation etched in her memory:

Green streaks tussled with blonde and wisped against Quinn's forehead. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Santana remembered feeling like she was going to vomit at any moment.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

Santana closed her eyes, willing the nausea to disappear. Quinn's fingers clasped against her arm and shook her.

"Look at me, Santana. Look at me." Her fingers burned into Santana's clammy skin.

"Do you know what I did to her? Look at me!" Santana hadn't seen Quinn purge her emotions like this since high school when her world collided with her ideals and her brain had gone haywire. "I brought a child into a world that's ending. She's innocent and she doesn't deserve this life. And then I let her go. And then I just gave up on her completely, because I can't explain how imperfect this world is to something so perfect. I haven't written her since Yale, Santana. She called me and I never answered."

Santana's eyes tore away as they filled with tears. The nausea grew stronger. She slid in her gym socks as she ran toward the bathroom. Her hair fell in her face as she threw up. Quinn's hands were pulling her hair back.

"I feel like that every day," Quinn sighed. Santana rested her cheek against the toilet seat.

"I'm so sorry, Quinn. I'm so sorry," Santana had choked between sobs.

They hadn't spoken of Beth since then. That was when Santana realized that Quinn skirted the Fatalist philosophy – Quinn so thoroughly blamed herself for her own demise.

…..

"Dinner time?" Santana's esophagus twisted. Tonight, dinner wouldn't make it out of the pot and onto the table. It would sit on the stovetop, stewing into a block of beans and whatever else was in their cabinet. Looking at Quinn's forlorn expression, she had recognized the same.

"Yeah."

Santana climbed the counter and pulled the remaining cans out of the cupboard while Quinn filled the pot with half a container of bottled water. It had been about two weeks since the days of running water in their neighborhood. Other neighborhoods still enjoyed the luxury, but when a nearby pipe burst, there were no crews available to fix the mess. The night it turned off, she and Quinn had quenched their thirst with a ten-dollar bottle of tequila. When they'd heard the first crash of a window at the mostly boarded-up drugstore across the street, their moral compasses had already taken the turn far enough south to join in and swipe four cases of bottled water. Carrying four cases of bottled water to the top of a walk-up apartment while drunk on ten-dollar tequila provided plenty of excitement in itself that night, as well.

They'd made it a habit about once a week to make a "family dinner." Usually, that meant Quinn, Santana, and a few friends cooking, drinking wine, and playing a board game. Tonight, most of their New York City transplant friends had traveled back to their hometowns to spend the evening with family. Tonight, they'd retreat to their nuclear New York family - their only family.

* * *

><p>Thanks to Sapphic Charmer<p> 


	2. 8pm to 9pm

**8pm-9pm**

Back in Lima, Ohio, the Fatalists ruled. That included the Lopez and Fabray clans. Santana imagined that the divided Fabray family was likely to be nearly saturated in alcohol and yet praying for forgiveness for the sins of their daughter rather than their own. Though she often attempted to refrain, she could not help but picture her own family in Lima, as well. Her grandmother would be tinkering with the arrangement of porcelain angels she collected in her windowsill, forever disjointed from the world around her. Her father would be in his office, sipping straight from the bottle of single malt Scotch. Degrees and certificates of recognition from the American Plastic Surgeon Association would be his only company. That left her mother. She couldn't bring herself to think about her mother now.

"You look hot tonight, Quinn."

Not long after The Announcement, Quinn had gone rogue. Her hair was a messy, unkempt mix of pinks, blondes, and light browns. She'd taken up her old vice of smoking and developed a husky smoker's drawl, something that Santana hadn't commented upon despite its constant presence.

"Keep it in your pants, Lopez," she said between drags.

"I'm just saying, if it doesn't work out tonight with anyone else, let's meet back here at four." Santana licked her lips and raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it before." Her eyes traveled up Quinn's body. Doc Marten's and a leather jacket stood in stark contrast to the flowery shifts she kept from high school. Santana couldn't criticize Quinn's personal style. If moving to New York years ago had made her care just a little bit less, The Announcement months ago made her careless.

Quinn could only smile. "Go get changed, Santana."

Santana plucked clothes from the floor, in search of her favorite black jeans and v-neck shirt. At times, she wondered why she cared. Going out was mostly a favor to Quinn. Quinn, who liked to lose herself when they left the house. Santana usually kept one eye on Quinn and the other on the life happening around her. The last time she'd kept both eyes in front of her was in her sophomore year of college, but remembering that time made her head split.

Her wardrobe had matured since high school and even college. No longer did she prance through life wearing short skirts - each in a different color - and fur vests. Even in Lima, she'd never wanted to get used to the cold weather. Michigan and New York were no different. Her closets consisted mainly of cotton tees and worn jeans, with a few sweaters and button downs mixed in.

The pot of beans bubbled on the stove-top.

"You ready yet?" Quinn's voice called from the other room.

"Were we actually planning on eating tonight? I thought it was just for show?" She slipped into the second leg of her jeans.

"Honestly, I don't care about it at all. I'd rather not enter hell with a stomach full of beans."

They'd saved the last few sips of Santana's birthday present for this night. Santana had always liked to say that expensive tequila didn't make her feel intoxicated, it made her feel. She wanted to feel tonight.

She closed her bedroom door behind her and busied herself at the kitchen counter, pulling out the bottle and a pair of glasses scavenged from a flea market in Brooklyn a few years ago. Quinn watched from the couch.

She popped the cork off the bottle. It took some effort. The last time they'd had a sip was nearly three months ago.

"You'll be with me tonight?" Quinn's voice was nearly a whisper.

Santana caught her eyes from across the room. "Until I won't."

Quinn chuckled. "Is it going to be one of those nights? That's why you're drinking tonight?" Quinn hadn't been privy to most of those nights. Though they often began with Quinn at her side, they ended in a dark bedroom somewhere in Brooklyn, or in the Village, or Chelsea. They ended with Santana riding the subway at four in the morning smelling of alcohol and sweat and sex. They ended with the chasm inside only growing deeper. They ended with Santana replaying that night at Michigan when she was nineteen, and her girlfriend was whispering, "Who are you?"

"I know you were joking about the whole 'if it doesn't work out with anyone else tonight' thing, but if we do get separated, I really am coming back here tonight." Quinn's eyebrow raised, hoping it wouldn't be one of those nights.

Santana hadn't wanted to think about where she'd be until Quinn whispered those words. "I'll be here, Quinn."

If it were up to her, they'd be at home all night. There was no need to leave your family on the night that the world was to end. They would tuck into Santana's bed and lie awake next to one another, interlocking fingers and clenching jaws until everything went dark. Their easy silence and Quinn's warmth the only substitute for the comfort Santana hadn't felt since Lima, Ohio had left her behind at nineteen.

But it was never up to her. Santana knew she could never change what had left her behind. Lima would always be in the past, though more and more often it reared its head. What they did tonight would not change what had happened in the past.

No, tonight would be up to Quinn because she lived everyday with Lima haunting her. Lima wasn't her past; it was her present. What they did tonight would not change what had happened in Quinn's past either, but it might take her mind off the present. If that was how their worlds were to end, Santana was okay with that.

The glass was half full. Or half empty. Or just filled to the halfway point. She handed the other glass to Quinn and joined her on the couch. Her fingers plucked at a seam. The couch had been another find. This time at a yard sale out in New Jersey. She'd had to come get Quinn from some boy's house because she was too wasted to find her own way home. Apparently the boy had searched Quinn's call log and found that her last six phone calls were all to Santana. Smart guy. It was a shame he didn't work out.

It was seven in the morning when the PATH train got to Quinn's part of Jersey, prime time for yard sales. She remembered scouring the newspaper classifieds with her mother as a child, circling the most promising sales in red. She thought she'd teach Quinn a lesson, so she shoved her in the sales office bathroom of a U-Haul chain while she spoke with the clerk about renting a pickup truck for a half day. They stopped every twenty minutes or so - for Quinn. Six hours later, Santana was driving the pickup back to Jersey and Quinn was passed out on a leather couch that was falling apart at the seams.

As she dug her finger into another seam she turned to Quinn. "Do you think people are toasting tonight? I mean, is that what we should do here?"

Quinn gave a throaty laugh at Santana's nervous energy. "What the hell Santana. Just drink it." Quinn shook her head and put the glass to her lips. "Bottoms up. There's our toast."

Quinn took it all down in one gulp. That used to be Santana. At high school parties, even college parties, the alcohol flowed and Santana flowed right with it. The steady stream of alcohol usually flooded into a gushing river and ended in disaster. In high school, the disaster was boys, usually football players. In the first two years of college, the disaster was a gruesome fight with her girlfriend about coming out to her family. In the last two years of college, the disaster was a deep despairing feeling of loss. She'd cleaned herself up after getting into Columbia. That, or she'd cleaned herself up after The Prediction. She didn't want her last days to be a blur.

Quinn had done the exact opposite. All she wanted was for her last days to be a blur.

Quinn's face scrunched together as she slammed the glass to the coffee table and pulled out a cigarette.

Santana took another slow sip and winced. She set her glass on the coffee table and leaned forward onto her knees, holding her head in her hands, shutting out the outside world in favor of feeling. Her head clouded with its first taste of it. She closed her eyes and dug her fingers into her scalp, sighing deeply.

She flinched when she felt Quinn's hand rest against her back. This wasn't who they were, but maybe tonight it was supposed to be.

"Do you ever wish things were different?" Santana's voice was muffled.

She heard Quinn suck in a breath and she felt Quinn's hand tap a little beat against her back. "Everything. Every moment."

"But they can't be." She was still talking into her lap. She heard Quinn exhale a shaky breath of smoke.

"Just one moment. I just want to take back that moment." That moment was obvious to Santana. She stopped contemplating her Lima, Ohio and saw Quinn's a sliver more clearly. Even if it would undo a life, she'd take back that moment? She felt the breath escape her lungs.

"But you can't," Santana whispered, out of breath.

They stayed still until they couldn't any longer. Quinn moved first. She flicked her cigarette butt out of the window and onto the world below. She stayed at the window. She watched the sun setting. Santana stood and pushed her hair back out of her face, then drained the rest of the tequila. Feeling something tonight would be better than going numb forever.

"You're my best friend Quinn," her voice faltered, but was caught with a voice she didn't recognize, even if it was her own. "I'd never take that back."

Quinn stayed at the window. She watched the world set.

* * *

><p>Thanks to Sapphic Charmer<p> 


	3. 9pm to 10pm

**9pm-10pm**

New Yorkers knew that hope had truly died when the trains shut down, almost a month ago. Why work when the world was ending? Subway tunnels had become gathering places - a shelter for the homeless, a hideaway for those on the run, a refuge for travelers seeking that oft-touted but never realized 'safe zone.' Santana had even been to a progressive subway car party a few weeks ago. Each car boasted a new drink, a new beat, a new theme, and new people. It became one of those "both eyes forward" nights and ended in an undergrad's dorm room at NYU with her head between a girl's thighs. Alexandra, her name was. Or maybe Alisha.

Without the trains, living in New York had taken on a new façade for Santana. She and Quinn had moved into the top floor of a brownstone on W. 114th when she started graduate school about four years prior. For a grad student and (at the moment) a program assistant at a non-profit, it was the best they could do in Manhattan. It was tiny. Seven hundred square feet meant that Quinn could tell when Santana's breathing had evened out at night. Seven hundred square feet meant that Santana could wake up early, but only if she tiptoed. Seven hundred square feet meant that they were family.

The rooftop deck was what made it home. Well, it wasn't exactly a rooftop deck in official terms. Santana had discovered it after they moved in. A fire escape sat just outside of her window, clanking against the building whenever the wind whipped. She'd opened the window for inspiration one morning, but found more inspiration in climbing to the top of the escape ladder and onto the flat rooftop. The sun pulled itself above the rooftops of Manhattan's skyline, inching up to reflect off of glass skyscrapers to the south and the Hudson River to the west. From that point forward, a week didn't pass without a climb to the deck, even when her nose was red at the first blast of wintry air in the coldest winters and the tar stuck to her Chucks in the hottest summers.

(It had been quite the adventure pulling lawn chairs and a small charcoal grill up that fire escape a few weeks after its discovery. Santana's hands still sweat when she thinks about the flecks of terror in Quinn's hazel eyes when Quinn's foot slipped off the railing and the grill top rattled seven flights to the ground.)

Walking the streets of Manhattan had always been one of Santana's favorite past-times. Her first city jaunt had come at the expense of the Lima County School Board, during a Glee Club field trip for the National competition. She'd ventured to Tribeca, a place she'd only read about, to find that, though it hadn't lived up to its storied reputation as a lesbian mecca, it was a mosaic of cultures, architecture, and life. In her college years, she'd visited Quinn more times than she could count. Quinn had lived in lower Manhattan and during her work hours, Santana found herself walking as many as 50 blocks in exploration. She'd return to Quinn's ragged basement studio in Chinatown with sore feet and an urge to explore some of the seedier sides of Manhattan. Since the trains had closed down a month ago, the streets had bubbled over with a new edge.

They hadn't walked more than two blocks before she felt the sweat run down her back. Though set just an hour earlier, the sun's presence endured as heat steamed from the black asphalt streets. Headed east, she and Quinn abutted the rear of Butler Library. Their destination was about thirty blocks south, on the Upper West Side. The Upper West Side didn't boast many warehouses, but they'd found an eccentric hangout along Riverside Drive that brought a mix eclectic enough for both Santana and Quinn to be satisfied.

She wished they had time to walk around toward the front of the library. In its prime, Butler shined with gold light in the nighttime. Its columns supported the names of scholars held in high esteem by the learned, Santana among them. (Though with her background in the Studies of Women and Gender, she clamored for female and minority voices to be added to the mix.) She'd thought about accepting admission at other schools. Harvard seemed to want to add a Latina to its role, so that was out. She'd never been "_the Latina" _before, and she refused to let it define her in adulthood. The University of Oregon's weather meshed perfectly with her persona, but proved too far from Quinn. Butler Library, with its halo of light and endless words, became her reason for New York City, for Columbia. She silently promised herself that she'd walk back past it on her way home.

"I think you should call her." Santana felt the sole of her shoe catch the curb as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Her gait faltered.

"Who now?" A cigarette dangled between Quinn's lips as she struggled with her lighter.

"Quinn…" Santana stopped in the street and reached out for Quinn's shoulder to hold her back. Quinn spun around, her eyes already on the verge of tears. "Don't you think tonight's the night to set things right?" Her mind flashed to Lima, Ohio: her father's gentle voice a static whisper through the telephone, the smell of grass freshly cut, her mother's crucifix delicately resting against tanned skin.

"Are you really talking to me about 'setting things right?'" The flame struggled against the wind as Quinn inhaled sharply. "Things will never be right with her and it's too late anyway." Short bursts of smoke clouded her head with each word.

Santana licked her lips and slowly opened her eyes to stare at the ground. "Fine," she whispered. "I'm just saying. I know you think about it. I want you to feel..." her mind tripped over the words, "I don't know. I want you to feel…"

"I can't think about that tonight." Quinn bit back. It had to have been the only thing on her mind.

Hazel eyes flicked to her own. Santana held Quinn's stare for a moment before looking to the street. The streets were more littered in New York's waning days. Advertisements for basement raves and repentance notices for sinners lined the gutters now alongside the gum wrappers and trampled plastic bags.

Riverside Drive was upon them, the warehouse just a block away. They'd walked along the park for the last few blocks. A blaze from a trashcan caught Santana's eye. Looters. Quinn moved forward, her mind on the alcohol and hook-ups waiting at the club.

Santana swung her hand out to catch Quinn's, pulling her in the opposite direction. "I want to see the water."

"Seriously, Santana?" Quinn pulled back angrily, her mind still on the conversation Santana brought up earlier.

Santana held fast. "Please. We're going to your bar. I'm going to look out for you while you get drunk. Please do this for me."

Quinn pulled her hand back and rubbed at the knuckles Santana had squeezed just a little too hard. "I never asked you to look after me."

"Quinn, please," a desperation Quinn rarely heard inched its way into Santana's voice. "I don't want to argue. I just want this."

Quinn closed her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. "Fine."

The Hudson smelled like finality. It was a deep, rich, earthy smell, unlike anything Santana had smelled from the river before. A few yellowing lights dimly illuminated the waves.

It had taken five minutes to walk across the park and to the river. They hadn't talked the entire time. Santana hadn't even looked over at Quinn, too afraid she'd fuel her ire.

She tempted fate as she leaned against the railed: "I'm sorry, Q." She turned to look at Quinn, whose cigarette was fighting against the damp wind to stay lit.

"You're just looking out, I know." Her eyes nearly crossed as she focused in on the tip of the lighter. "Are _you _gonna call?"

"Call who?" Santana searched for something interesting in the gutters. Occasionally, she'd find a photograph from the pre-digital era or a tattered page from a book. Those found items stopped her still. Even with the world ending, people continued to disrespect the history she'd spent her young adult life studying.

"You know." Quinn's voice was steady.

Santana caught her eye again and went cold. "It's different and you know it. Don't do that, Quinn."

Seven hundred square feet meant that Quinn knew just the right things to say without pushing Santana over the edge.


	4. 10pm to 11pm

10pm-11pm

Hot gusts of wind off the Hudson pushed them back toward the city's center and into the rusted doors of the club.

They'd been to so many of these in the last few months that this one didn't feel all that different. The "End of the World" rave and it felt just like last Friday's. It disgusted her. Sweat flooded the air and clogged breathing passages. Condensation from the heat of bodies moistened the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The stench of days old gym clothes clung to the air. Men approached her carelessly. They'd all say the same things.

"I live right around the corner. C'mon."

Their heavy breath was a combination of alcohol and exertion.

"Fuck off," she'd say, not even bothering to make eye contact.

Occasionally, her retorts were enough to rile some dashing young gentleman into platitudes demonizing her sexuality.

"Haven't you heard? You people are the reason for this end of the world shit."

That was probably her favorite response. She and Quinn had had a good laugh over it, since the jerk was dumb enough to approach them both at once.

Disgust, however, didn't stop Santana from coming to every last one of these raves. She was looking for something. When she was drunk, she knew exactly what she was looking for. Her addlepated, intoxicated brain allowed her to find someone who would make her forget. Her mother's voice would stop its ringing in her ears until she'd sobered. Then, when she'd wake from the girl's bed – didn't matter which girl – her mother's voice chimed louder, and louder, and louder. It shamed her out of the girl's room and into the streets. Just like it had in her sophomore year of college.

When she was sober, she was just looking for Quinn. Somehow, her time in New York had empowered her to be Quinn's protector. She controlled the switch ensuring that Quinn's last days wouldn't end too soon, as another nameless face meeting the Maker before her time had come. Before everyone's time had come.

It was apparent what Quinn was looking for. She'd been looking for it ever since she'd left Lima. Santana, frankly, was surprised that Quinn's search hadn't ended yet. Escape. That was what the hair, the smoking, the attitude, were really all about. Escape from her days as a Cheerio at William McKinley High School. Escape from the reputation she'd built as a destructive pregnant teen. Escape from the battered household that had allowed her to believe perfection was a possibility. Escape from the sweet little face she'd created and given up selfishly, selflessly.

Most nights, Quinn found escape in the arms of a nice guy in search of a girl to cross off his bucket list. Santana was glad for those nights. The guys would give her a warm smile when she approached them. They'd exchange phone numbers with her while Quinn was at the bar doing one last shot. She'd tell them to take care of her or else. They'd text her in the morning to let her know that Quinn was on her way home.

Some nights, Quinn found escape with her head buried in a dirty toilet and Santana frantically searching for "the girl with the _ hair." Anywhere from thirty minutes to four hours later, Santana would find herself tucking Quinn in with a trashcan by her side and tears ready to burst from her eyes.

One night, Santana hadn't found Quinn. It was a few months ago, just after the Announcement. Santana hadn't wanted to be a protector that night. She'd allowed herself too much indulgence and found herself the next morning on unfamiliar grounds. A mess of dirty blonde hair stuck to the pillow next to her own and for a moment her stomach dropped as she considered the possibility of having slept with Quinn.

"Baby," the girl had hoarsely whispered as she turned into Santana. Not Quinn. Her head throbbed as she tried to piece together the night before.

Santana found herself on the edge of the bed, pulling on her jeans and a t-shirt. "Sorry, I have to go," she had whispered, her back to the girl.

Just before she'd left, she had to ask. "You didn't see another girl with me? A streak of pink right here?" She fingered the bangs draping in front of her eyes.

The girl's hazy eyes blinked for ages before she shook her head and buried her face under the pillow.

She'd called Quinn more than twenty times before she'd reached their apartment. The trains were still going at the time, so it took her a little less than an hour to arrive. Quinn's bed was empty, as it so often was on "mornings after."

She'd wrung her hands until they were clammy and sweaty. She'd dialed and erased a handful of friends' numbers who Quinn would have never called.

As the sun was setting, Santana climbed to the roof.

"You're here?"

Quinn was in the same vintage flowered print, military boots, and shawl from the night before. Her skin and lips were blue in the March air.

Santana eyed the phone sitting next to her on the lounge chair.

"And you have your phone?" Her hands clenched at her sides. "What the fuck Quinn? Do you know how long I've been looking for you? I called you how many times?" She pulled a chunk of hardened snow from the ledge and threw it with a yell.

"I thought you were laid out at some serial killer's house. Or fucking OD'd on some bench in Riverside Park. I thought I was never going to see you again." She kicked at the ledge and heard the ice slip onto the concrete below.

"Earth to Quinn? Do you give a shit?"

Quinn's eyes met the fury of Santana. "I don't know." The fury decayed into sorrow. She felt the back of the lounge chair dip as Santana sat behind her, pulling her in. She leaned back against Santana for more than an hour as the sun declined.

"How many…" she hadn't spoken in hours and cleared her throat. "How many more of these sunsets are there?"

"Months." Santana whispered.

* * *

><p>Quinn hadn't mentioned that night again. Santana worried about it on most nights that began like this one.<p>

"So you're drinking tonight, right?" They were at the bar, shoulder to shoulder with other Realists and Fatalists drinking until oblivion.

"Yeah." She stood on her tiptoes and searched the room. It was the usual crowd for joints like this, but amplified. The speakers were just a little bit louder, the dancers twisted their bodies just a little more recklessly, the addicts wasted away just a little more publicly, the girls opened their legs just a little more easily. Although she wanted to feel, she didn't want that tonight.

Quinn pushed a clear drink into her hand and they walked to the dance floor.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: It's coming.


	5. 11pm to 12am

11pm-12am

The songs all began the same. A pulsing backbeat, an upbeat melody, a throng of bodies thrashing to the music. The melody usually built slowly, with just a few notes or lyrics looping, then building, looping, building. Mouths uneasily turned upright as dancers found a recognizable phrase or collection of notes. The climax of each song ratcheted up to 140 beats per minute. Sirens crushed the melody. Sharp notes set a dour mood, contrasting with the continued movement of bodies keeping to the rhythm. Sweat beaded against closed eyelids, streaming down faces like tears. People were lost in the crowd, lost in themselves, lost in the effortless rhythm of the beat.

She was just one body amongst hundreds. Santana figured that the masses probably recognized her golden tresses before they saw her face or her eyes. She, instead, first recognized that sliver of glistening skin left bare between the hem of her shirt and the waist of her skirt. It was pale, untouched by the sun. It was toned, the result of daily workouts, dancing until dawn, or both. The strobe of lights burned against it, reflecting into Santana's eyes. It would be soft, with just a bit of give. It would be warm against her skin. Santana imagined that it felt like Elysium against her fingertips. Against her lips, like Canaan. Against her own body, Zion.

Her name would be something that fell from her lips like a last wish. She'd whisper it again and again into the thick night air like a mantra, growing louder and louder until it carried her into the heavens.

"What you looking at?"

Startled, Santana shook her head and looked back at Quinn, studying her. Quinn's pupils were dilated. "What are you on?"

"Guy near the bathroom has E. If I'm gonna die at dawn, I'm gonna die in the best way possible." Quinn's eyes closed as she inhaled the musk of the crowd. Her fingers toyed with the back of her arm, running to her bicep and back.

Santana looked back to the dance floor below.

A moment of panic flashed across her face as she searched the room for the sliver of skin, the golden tresses, the rapture painted across the mysterious dancer's face. Quinn swayed to the music as Santana felt herself melt down internally, eyes frantically scanning the warehouse. Her fingers absentmindedly gripped firmly to the metal restraining bars of the balcony, knuckles whitening by the second. Hysteria wracked her brain. An angel had come and gone before her eyes. She felt the air suck out of her lungs. Surely this moment was the apocalypse.

"Let's gonna get another drink." Quinn's eyes slowly moved over the crowd below. "Down there. And then, we'll dance."

"Ok." The word mangled in her throat and tore out her breath. She didn't want another drink. She wanted salvation.

She could feel Quinn grabbing for her fingers as she led them through the crowd. Quinn probably thought that she was looking over her shoulder to make sure she was behind her. Instead, she kept glancing for that flash of skin.

"Two vodka tonics," she heard Quinn say to the bartender. Her back was to the bar, her eyes to the crowd, scanning.

When Quinn turned back with her drink, Santana was gone - one body among many.

Minutes later, she handed Santana a thoroughly watered-down drink and leaned up against the wall next to her. "Couldn't find you for a minute there. Get started on that and we're gonna dance." Quinn scanned the crowd, too.

Long legs that had materialized from beyond the crowd caught Santana's eye. That glint of skin made her palms sweat and nearly drop her glass. Celestial blue eyes took her breath. She'd missed those from on high. A moment passed and she lost them as the girl closed her eyes and throbbed to the music.

"Santana!" Quinn stepped in front of her and blocked her view completely. "What's wrong with you?"

"Huh?" She pushed Quinn to the side and her eyes caught the girl once again.

"Santana!" She felt her face twist involuntarily. Quinn had grabbed her jaw and pulled Santana's face toward her.

"Ow!" She pushed Quinn's hand away from her face and turned back. "You see her?" She pointed toward the girl.

"Who?"

"Her. You see her?"

"Yeah."

"Ok." She could feel Quinn's eyes on her still.

"Well, what about her?"

"I don't know."

"You looking for an apocalyptic hook-up? A hook-up that rocks your world, literally? You wouldn't do that, would you? That's more fitting for me, if you ask me. You got your shit together too much."

Santana turned. "I didn't ask you, so shut up." Santana met Quinn's eyes and raised an eyebrow in jest.

Quinn grabbed her hand and pulled. "Let's dance."

Santana's eyes were back on the girl in an instant. For the last three songs, no one had approached her. She'd rocked her hips with precision to a thunderous beat. She'd twirled her hair, crowning her head like a halo. Santana looked around to see if other people were studying her, too. No one paid her any mind. No followers but one. Santana assured herself she would meet an early death with this fallen angel's cult.

"Santana. Let's dance." She felt Quinn's hand grab at her shirt now, pulling her. "C'mon. If you're out there, she might actually dance with you."

"Not yet."

"What're you afraid of? She's gonna reject you?" Quinn's fingers played at the hem of Santana's shirt until Santana pried them away.

She had been too wrapped up in watching the girl to think about the possibility of approach, much less rejection. She'd been rejected. It had tempered her every interaction with girls since. There was that girl in her senior year of college. The first girl she'd been interested in since the giant meltdown of sophomore year. (Since the day her first girlfriend had left her numb and wondering who she was.) There was that girl she'd met at her orientation for Columbia, too. She'd thought about calling home to talk about that one, but there would be no one on the other line. She'd called Quinn at work instead.

"Give it a break Quinn. You want to find some guy, go do it on your own." Santana's eyes cut at her.

"You know I do it on my own all the time, I don't need you. If this is how tonight's going to be – with all this bitching – I don't want you around. I'm not trying to hang out with brooding high-school-Santana here."

For a few seconds, all she saw was Quinn's back as she walked away and onto the dance floor.

Not a minute later, Quinn was facing her again, this time more distantly; her eyes on a blonde man a head taller than her. Santana measured him for a moment. A quarrel with Quinn wouldn't stop her from playing guard with one eye open, even if it was a two-eyes forward kind of night. His hands were above Quinn's waist and his eyes on her face. All was okay with the world for a few more hours. She reminded herself to check back at the pair after a few more drinks.

She turned back. Blue eyes were three steps closer. Santana felt three steps closer to salvation.


	6. 12am to 1am

**Maybe the World was Ending**

**12am-1pm**

Her mind overwhelmed her with 'what ifs' as her body inched closer. She'd started up on the balcony, looking down and catching that glint of pale skin on her abdomen. Now it was ten feet away, occasionally obstructed by a throng of bodies, and pulling at her insides even when she couldn't see it.

She leaned against the wall and clutched at the bottle of water she'd stashed into Quinn's purse when they left. She wanted to be two eyes forward (with an occasional eye on Quinn), not in a drunken daze. Strands of Quinn's sweaty dyed hair mixed with blond locks just beyond. His hands were on her, but not too far down - a good sign. She wouldn't have to approach Quinn's own apocalyptic hook-up quite yet.

Santana unscrewed the top, took a sip, and screwed the top tighter, until her fingertips hurt and reminded her to feel something else. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and bit for the same reason – to remind her to feel something else.

The blonde girl's body rocked in exact time to the rhythm. Academia flipped its switch in her brain. It reminded Santana of Burton Tower, in Ann Arbor – its symphony of bells clanging in concert with the time. Ann Arbor reminded her of _her,_ her first love; at the end of sophomore year and slamming the door on the last day she'd see her. _She _reminded Santana of her mother, whispering, "_You are not my daughter."_ She couldn't.

She looked up. Quinn was gone. The boy, too.

She walked down the narrow hallway toward the bathrooms and the backdoor. Quinn's escape. Quinn was leaning against the wall alone, her phone in her hand.

"What are you doing?" Even away from the music, Santana had to shout.

Quinn jolted and shoved her phone into her purse. "Nothing."

"You calling someone? Did you call her?"

"Christ, Santana, drop it." Quinn's arms pushed herself off of the wall and into the night. Santana caught the door behind her and followed. The air tasted just as sticky as inside. She'd expected to see the end of the world – lights flashing or the sky lit in darkness. It looked like any other night.

"Sorry." Quinn had taken up a spot against the brick wall of the alley. A man leaned against another man farther down the wall, roughly kissing him. Santana turned away and look back at Quinn lighting a cigarette.

"Was that your conquest for tonight?" A cloud of smoke created a shield around them.

"Who?" Santana's brow furrowed.

"The blonde girl you were staring at. She's pretty."

"Yeah, she is." Santana thought about going back inside to catch another glimpse of that sliver of skin. "I don't think it's a good idea tonight."

"I think it's the only good idea tonight."

"What about that blonde guy?"

Quinn coughed roughly and looked startled. "Oh, you saw him?"

"Course. I'm keeping an eye on you."

"You don't need to do that, San, I told you."

"It's what I do. And I want to."

"Fine." Quinn took a last drag of her cigarette and flicked it into a standing puddle of murky water. "He's not so bad, if you know him."

Santana caught a soft groan from the man leaning up against the wall as she pulled the door.

"You should dance with her, Santana. Or go talk to her, or something. What have you got to lose? Seriously." Quinn held her hands in her own. Her dilated pupils sunk into Santana's. Quinn shouted as they moved closer to the dance floor.

"Alright. Yeah." Santana looked up to find the girl that much closer, just feet away.

By the time she'd turned back to Quinn, her pink streaks were lost in the crowd. She turned back again to find the girl's eyes on her and a slight smile on her face.

Santana clutched the water bottle tighter and gave a slight nod before shifting her eyes to the ground. On every third beat, she'd glance up. Her eyes met with a slideshow of breathtaking images: the girl lost to the rhythm, blonde locks whipped through the heavy air, that sliver of skin within arm's length.

Quinn reappeared a few songs later, a shot and a drink shoved into her hands.

"Lose the water bottle and the loser demeanor." Quinn tipped the shot toward Santana's mouth as the water bottle fell to the floor. The blonde man from earlier was no where in sight as she tipped her head back and a warm liquid burned down her throat.

"Go after her, Santana."

Santana felt the drink slipping out of her hand, a combination of condensation and perspiration. Quinn pushed her in the girl's direction until she could feel deliverance. She closed her eyes and lost her mind in the touch.

Moments or lifetimes later, Quinn was gone and the touch remained. Her drink dangled from her fingertips and blue eyes exposed her. The girl's mouth moved. She was talking to Santana. Santana shook her head and tried to listen again. She couldn't tell if it was the music in the club or the music in her head, but the message was lost.

The girl gave up after the third try and swayed in front of her instead. Santana's eyes darted to all the places she'd glared at before. With the alcohol firmly possessing her, she placed on hand on the girl's hip and pulled in closer, eyes briefly checking for consent. She was met with an airy smile and the girl's head tipping back to the rhythm.

Songs melded into one another. Santana forgot about Quinn, about the boy. She could only feel the moment and keep two eyes forward.

Attempts to talk were futile, Santana decided, after trying to scream "What's your name?" to the girl for the third time.

At some point, they decided to talk with their hands instead. Santana's fingers skirted her back.

Her eyes were magnificent. Santana lost the rhythm. She waited for the pulse of the music to recapture her body.


	7. 1am to 2am

**Maybe the World Was Ending**

**1am-2am  
><strong>

Her eyes trained on the girl leading her down a back alley. At the break of the fifth or sixth or tenth song, the girl had pulled at her hand and tugged her toward the back alley. This time, Quinn was nowhere to be found.

She'd been to this place and she'd dragged someone out here before. It had never felt as exciting as this. Tonight, the streetlights glimmered anew, radiating against the girl's blonde hair. The moon shone brighter. The girl's skin was aglow.

Had Quinn slipped her something? Could she have dissolved ecstasy into one of those drinks?

She tripped over a cobblestone as her mind traced back to her interaction with Quinn earlier. No, she was sober. She'd meant to stay sober tonight anyway. At least partially sober.

Suddenly, her back was against a brick wall and the girl's hand had pushed the back of her wrist roughly into the concrete.

"Kiss me." It was hot against her ear. A trickle of foreign sweat moistened her cheek. Her hands froze at her sides. Her eyes scattered between the girl's lips and blown pupils. Shocked by her surroundings, she froze. Shocked by the press of a body at once familiar and completely foreign against her body.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" The girl had pulled back. Santana wanted to capture the smile, record it, and take it back to her carrel in the library to pore over it.

It disappeared in an instant, replaced by a worried turn at the corners of girl's mouth. "Sorry. I just…the way you were looking at me… I thought this was what you wanted."

"No," Santana's voice was thick and unfamiliar. She swallowed. "No, I want to."

The smile returned and Santana froze again. The girl's face moved closer to her own.

"Can I kiss you?" Santana's mind flicked back. Did a memory exist to go with this moment? A lit candle casting shadows against the darkness of her bedroom and a boy's scratchy stubble rubbed against her face. No. _Her_ hair draped over Santana's naked chest, tickling her into seriousness. Almost. No. She didn't want that memory to crowd her mind in this moment. Only happy memories. She pulled back a little, searching for an image. Blue eyes caught in the moonlight, wrapped in her.

She leaned forward, breath mingling with Santana's. Long fingers cupped Santana's cheek, thumb stroking her jawline. Her eyes closed, but her mind opened - blue eyes darkened by the moonlight. The Earth stopped moving. Time stood still. Another second, minute, hour added to the countdown. As if under duress, her mind closed and her body pitched forward. Santana's lips tested against thinner, pinker, more hopeful lips.

At first it was almost nothing, compared to what it would come to be. It tasted faintly of sticky sweet lip-gloss, the kind that Santana made fun of Quinn for wearing in her high school cheerleading days, then started not-so-secretly wearing just weeks later. Against her lips, it felt like the kind of quick press her mother had given her before she'd tucked herself back into the passenger seat of the family van and driven back to Lima in August of her 18th year. But then, the girl's lips parted and Santana felt disgusting for having thought of Quinn and her mother. She pulled back and gasped. Her lungs filled with relief. Just before the girl could ask if she was okay, Santana's mouth crashed against hers. Her lips parted again and this time it was everything. It was salvation.

The joints in her fingers ached as they crept to the sliver of skin she'd admired from the balcony. The closer her fingers got, the weaker her kiss became, until it was just her lips hovering against the girl's, her tongue tracing a lazy, now familiar pattern in her mouth. She bit, hard when she felt skin against the pads of her fingertips. She pressed her fingers tightly against the girl's hip, imprinting herself.

The girl pulled back and winced in pain. "I didn't take you for a biter." Santana saw that smile creep back onto her face.

"Sorry." Her fingers continued to knead into the girl's flesh. She rested her head against the girl's shoulder and felt her own warm breath rebound against her cheeks. The world couldn't be ending.

Her lips crashed against the girl's once again. Searching. Hungry. Open. Long, dexterous fingers cupper her cheek and soothed her. Her heartbeat slowed a fraction and her lips softened a beat.

She pulled back and looked up into moonlit eyes. "I'm a Realist." Her brow furrowed on instinct. Santana wasn't sure why she'd said it. She didn't even know this girl's name. It poured out of her as if by providence.

"And I'm a Believer." A smile danced across the girl's face.

Santana's eyes closed. Believer stereotypes flooded her thoughts. "If you're a Believer, then what are you doing here?"

The smile closed in on her, until all she could see was a halo of blonde hair and cherubic, pink lips.

Santana almost believed, too.


End file.
